


Lumiere and Plumette Abroad: Scotland

by noblewriting



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, plumette and lumiere traveling abroad post-curse and being TOTAL DORKS, so uh who is in the mood for ewan mcgregor jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 11:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblewriting/pseuds/noblewriting
Summary: "ok but i kind of want to know about the scotland vacations." Here you go, anonymous Tumblr person.





	

**Scotland**. The villagers think they’re crazy. At first, the inhabitants of Loch Camhanaich are looking forward to the visitors—they don’t get much tourism, here, and the rumor that a beautiful French couple would arrive at Calder’s inn sparks gossip and anticipation. But then they arrive, and….no. No, they are not what was hoped.

“It smells amazing here!” gushes the woman. The villagers look at each other. It smells like sheep, and grass, and stone, as always. Ordinary smells.

“Is this bread?! Bread you fresh baked?! _Magnifique_ ,” cries the man, and eats the bread with far too much rapture, considering it’s plain black bread, the kind Calder makes every week with old grains and a lack of proper hygienic equipment.

“Look at these homes! This air! This sky!” The woman has gone twirling off, literally spinning with pleasure as she dances down the shit-specked street. The villagers look anywhere else, flushing with embarrassment for her. Surely her companion must be humiliated.

“Cherie, cherie! You dance too fast! I can never keep up,” and the Frenchman, laughing, is waltzing through Loch Camhanaich like it is the finest ballroom, lit by tapers and aglow with finery. He and the woman dance and wave and breathe deeply, far too deep, as if to suck the village up alive.

The villagers lock their shutters and stay in for the day. If the foreigners want to be mad as hatters, they can do so—but no need to let the children see such foolishness.

* * *

 

On the moors.

“I can’t get over the way things smell,” says Plumette, and she pulls up heather and holds it to her face. “Or the air on my eyes, and just _seeing_ you.”

“And the tastes of things!” Lumiere had tossed his wig into a thistle bush miles down the path, and now ruffles his russet hair with abandon. “That shortbread—the beef broth—I cannot see why Calder thought it was excessive to linger over such a feast for four hours. I had to savor everything.“

“I love these moors,” says Plumette. “I love this place, I love you. Lumiere, let us never go back to the palace. Let’s stay here and raise sheep.”

“Did you know my mother was Scottish?”

“ _Tu mens!_ You lie!”

“ _Non, non!_ She was. If you have ever thought I did not speak the purest french, blame ma mère—I learned my accent at her tartan knees.”

“Hmph.” Lumiere could murder her with kisses when she disapproves. “And can you still speak in her brogue?”

“Ehhh, madame, you do test me, no?— _donn’it make ye proud t’be Scottish?!_ ”

He laughs as she recovers from his yell.

“ _Shocking_ ,” Plumette whispers. “ _Scottish_ ” comes echoing back up from the mountains.

“Ah, _ma moitié_ , you did not know you hid a Highlander in your bed for all these years,” he murmurs, the sensual effect slightly dimmed by how hard he is trying not to laugh. Or maybe not so dimmed, after all. The heather rolls over them and they disappear from view.

**Author's Note:**

> All Scottish jokes courtesy of Ewan McGregor's ridiculous accent.


End file.
